


The Messes We Make

by snarechan



Category: Final Fantasy X, Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, First Meetings, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Light Angst, Team Up, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27881422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarechan/pseuds/snarechan
Summary: Jecht is too old to be putting up with this world traversal bullshit, yet here he is. But at least he's got good company again.
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't remember what Livejournal group this was for, or what anonymous user requested these characters, or how old this prompt is... All I know is this WIP is _ancient_. It was supposed to also be much longer (we're talking, like, 15+ chapters), but through the years I lost my original drafts and with it my want to work on this particular story. But the core of the theme still enticed me enough to dust off what I could and archive it here for posterity. 
> 
> This and all subsequent chapters beta read by Philophrosynae.

Jecht wakes up in a world of hurt. His muscles ache with a fatigue that mimics the times he'd overexerted himself in Blitzball tournaments. Although, he can't _recall_ participating in a recent match.

No way could he have.

His body is half-buried under sand and sea. The calm and steady tide foams at his knees. It is a familiar, albeit unexpected, sensation that would have lulled him back into unconsciousness if Jecht wasn't somewhat wise to the situation.   
  
With an agitated groan, Jecht squints up at the sun and commands one of his hands to shield his eyes from the blaring light with little success. The limb is dead weight and flops onto his forehead, useless and not yet accustomed to the idea of motion. For a short time he lazes there, not thinking of anything and giving his body a chance to decide what it wants to do with itself.   
  
When his brain threatens to melt he determines that, in the meantime, he might at least _try_ to figure out his surroundings. Jecht cranes his neck, enabling him to note that he is on a small beach. Which he's already guessed and doesn't reveal any clues concerning his whereabouts.

A long shadow falls across his front, causing Jecht to startle and incline his head in the opposite direction. Through the slight glare, his gaze beholds a set of vicious looking black pumps. The footwear is attached to a pair of bronze-toned legs a mile long. He amends the direction of his neck and cranes it back to take in the rest of…

Jecht hesitates to call her 'human' because the woman doesn't give off any such vibes, but she isn't a fiend or one of his spawn, either. She's tall and dark-skinned, as he noted before, and brings forth the impression of a typical beach babe. Her hair is bone white – rare, but not unheard of on Spira.

What set her apart from anyone else are the two, upright ears situated on top of her head. Kind of like a squatter monkey's, except _much_ longer. Jecht thinks them fake at first glance, maybe souvenirs or trophies from a catch-turned-headdress, but one of the appendages gives a twitch that is in no way due to the breeze. They appear very soft, and _very real._

So he tries settling the question of her species outright.

"The hell are you supposed to be, lady?" he asks, the demand thankfully softened by the raspy tone his voice is reduced to. Jecht's throat is parched and his tongue lolls around in his mouth, swollen. It's a wonder he can speak at all without sounding like sandpaper scraping together.

The woman regards him a moment. Her expression never wavers when she finally says, "You're no corpse, then." The response miffs Jecht and he scowls, put out that this strange dame accuses _him_ of dying like a puny, beached fish.

"Geez, it'll take more than _this_ to off me! Don't you know who I am?" he demands. The same hand that he'd used and failed to shield his eyes flies back up. Jecht tries to jab a thumb at his chest, his fingers uncooperative, so he settles on slapping the palm over his heart.  
  
"The name's Jecht, the best star player of the Zanarkand Abes! I'm—" His voice does not choke here. "—Guardian of High Summoner Braska, and—" Then again he _might have_ faltered, just a little. "—I'm Sin, dammit!"

During his ramblings, the stranger looks no more impressed than if he'd shown her water and claimed it was wine. It irks him to the point of wanting to sit up, though the ground makes it difficult. She kneels, granting Jecht an ample eyeful thanks to the skimpiness and low-cut of her bathing suit, and rests the back of her hand on his forehead to urge him into keeping still.

"My mistake, Sir Jecht, he who commands the Zanarkand Abes, sworn Protector of Lord Braska."

"You forgot the most important one," Jecht says, petulant and hoarse.

"Rest."

Not knowing why he bothers to listen, Jecht does nonetheless.  
  
  
  
  
Seagulls sound in the distance, their calls enticing Jecht to return home. He lets the noise of the birds carry his thoughts, as if the cries are actually their wings and can take him there. They don't, of course.

Warily, he opens his eyes and takes in his predicament. This second chance is with a much calmer mind. Jecht is still near the beach, but pulled out and further from the water so he's not half in it and getting prune-y.

Daylight glows in the far corners of the East, but not quite enough that the night holds no purchase in the sky. A stubborn few of the brighter and bigger stars linger in the navy velvet overhead. The scene reminds him of better times, and bitter ones, too.

A breeze picks up and Jecht turns into it. He spots the woman in the black getup standing not too far off. Her posture is straight as she stares in the direction of the approaching sun. The wind flutters her hair, but she doesn't do more to tame it than raise a hand to shield her temple. As the sun finally breeches the horizon, the pastel yellows and oranges turn the pale strands colors.

"Are you at last aware?"

"What?" Jecht asks, comprehending late that it's him whom she's addressing.

"Are you simply awake or has coherency returned?" she clarifies.

"I think I'm all right, if that's what you're wondering."

It must be the case because she nods, saying no more. The woman moves to extinguish the dying fire and pack up the sparse evidence of a camp. While she works, Jecht sits up with a pained grunt and stretches his stiff muscles. They give signs of fatigue and stress, feeling too tight on his old bones. He rolls a shoulder and rubs it to ease the tenseness he feels there as he watches the stranger finish in her tasks.

"I took the liberty of honing your weapon and left it beside you," she explains. Righting herself, she says, "If you are truly well, as you claim, then I shall take my leave."

Jecht glances at the aforementioned tool, indeed spotting his sword nearby. It's unscathed, the weapon having proven its durability through the countless conflicts he's faced with it. At present, it is buffed and primed – seeming brand-spanking new. Jecht grabs it by the hilt and feels immediately comforted to have it close.

Then her words sink in.

"H-hey, wait a minute!" Jecht yells, leaping to his feet with the aid of his sword and jogging after her. "I have questions for you, missy! Like who are you?"

"I do not see why you should be privy to such information," she says, having up and started to saunter away while he was in the middle of his musings and admiring his sword. The woman neither slows in her steps nor offers him an acknowledging glance.

"Sure I do! How'll I know who to thank for helping me?" he asks.

"Your gratitude is duly noted, but not required."

"Well, isn't that a swell thing to say," Jecht says sarcastically. "Fine then – how'd you find me?"

"I was on my return visit from hunting a Mark. You are fortunate that I was passing through here; not many find reason to come this way anymore."

"And where _is_ here?" He attempts to answer his own question, but his guesses are wild. Jecht notes that the terrain is less like a coastal paradise and more of a sand trap all around. Jecht scratches his chin as he asks, "Are we on Bikanel Island? Never visited there myself, but I've heard it's desert hell."

After he finishes speaking, the woman finally graces him with some notice. Her brows knit close together in the smallest of ways as she regards him. It is enough that Jecht can tell he's said something wrong.

"We are in no such place, but on the continent of Ordalia, in the Kingdom of Dalmasca. We are a day’s walk from the Royal City of Rabanastre."

"Ordealio? Damask? Rabbadabba?"

“Or _dalia_ , Dal _masca_ and Raba _nastre_ ,” she says, with an emphasis on each part of the word he misspoke. Her eyebrows inch closer together still. "Your head, how does it fair?"

"How does my head…?" Jecht scowls. "Forget it! I'm just lost is all."

"I can lead you to civilization, if you so require," she offers neutrally.

"Oh, well, that's kind of you… Uh, sure I can't have a name? Otherwise I'm going to start calling you whatever comes to mind. How's 'baby doll' suit your fancy?"

The woman returns to facing forward, not breaking in stride, although Jecht swore she picks up her pace. He chocks it up to his imagination, it probably deceptive since her steps barely leave imprints in the sand – so airy and swift – and his strides land his feet through the ground, up to his ankles.

"Fran will do, if you insist."

"That works." Introductions officially out of the way Jecht keeps the conversation moving, although, he lacks the success he had in the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

"Shit, it's _hot_ ," Jecht announces for the third time in the last minute. He brushes the palm of his hand across the back of his neck to rid it of the accumulating sweat.

The sun had risen to its zenith and shone in earnest, making good its chance to cook the unfortunate persons traveling below it. _Well_ , Jecht mentally amends as he looks at his strange new traveling companion, _its efforts aren't wasted on_ one _of us._

Fran is seemingly unaffected by the heat and retains her grueling pace across the desert. His own feet are only capable of keeping up due to his refusal to stay still. Staying still would guarantee melted toes. Jecht's calluses are thick as leather from his past wanderings, but even they have their limits and these conditions are pushing them to the test.

"Seriously, it's fucking hot! I think I smell well-done. How far did you say our stop was?" he asks.

"From here, half a day's worth. Maybe a tad more," Fran says, at last stopping to survey their position from the vantage point of a large outcropping of stone. Jecht takes the opportunity to rest and crouches at the rocks base, under some shade. His thighs protest, but he only grins and relishes the ache. He hasn't felt this sore from working his hardest in a long, long time.

"Take this."

He looks up and catches a flask that turns out to be filled with fresh water. He takes a couple grateful gulps from the container. The drink tastes like the sweetest thing he's ever encountered – better than any potion or antidote forced down his throat. He could have taken more, but controls himself. Jecht wipes the excess off his lips with his tongue and the back of his arm.

"Can you continue?" Fran asks.

"Yeah, yeah… Don't worry your pretty little head over me. I can make it," he reassures her. True to his word, Jecht follows Fran without falling behind. Every once in a awhile he grumbles about the temperature again or mutters another related observation, but the comments don't hold him back.

A howl from close by causes Jecht to pause said griping and look to his right. A pack of wild dogs prowl to his right, three in total. They're large – their fur surprisingly thick for such warm climates – and muscled, unlike the dingoes or related canines Jecht is accustomed to. The alpha of the pack growls in Jecht's direction and, irritated, he growls back with bared teeth.

"Buzz off, fido! You think I'm in the mood for fighting puppies like you?" he asks the creature, which continues to snarl at him. It tilts its head curiously at him, though. "Shoo, go on!"

He kicks at the ground in the animal's direction, sending dirt flying. Their hackles rise for a moment and then, seeming spooked, they suddenly turn tail and run. Jecht is smug at winning the standoff, until he discovers the real reason the dogs had fled. Fran senses it first, whipping around and on high alert at something behind him.

"Hm?" Jecht rumbles and turns.

Easily several heads taller than either of them at its full height, a reptile with hind legs that would have no issue squishing them flat towers by the nearby sand dunes. A blob of drool dribbles between its powerful looking jaws – a perfect accompaniment for the several knife-like teeth it possesses. The new creature must not have spotted them yet as its head is barely visible from their position behind the landscape.

"No sudden movements," Fran warns, voice low and cautious. "Do nothing to alert the wild saurian and we should be able to escape."

He laughs his typical, boisterous chuckle – it in no way heeding Fran's advice. The sword he has carried slung across his shoulder is swung out in front of him as Jecht gets into a battle ready stance.

"Why would I want to go and do something like that? This guy is way more worth my attention," Jecht says five seconds before he charges head-to-head with the giant lizard.

It notices the motion and instinctively makes to chomp at him, but Jecht deflects the creature with the flat of his sword. He bats its head away. Jecht follows the assault by jumping onto its neck and running along its back, purposely dragging his sword so that the weapon cuts into the burly, dry hide.

As he runs out of monster to slice, Jecht lands on the ground and plants his sword. He grabs the wild saurian by the tail with both hands. In a show of superior strength, he throws it into a rock face and knocks it down. The animal doesn't so much as twitch and, thinking the battle won, Jecht pats his hands together to clear off the dirt that crusted them from the short bout.

"Man, I'm not even worked up from that! What a waste. I've fought—"

The twang of a bow firing four – no, _five_ , he mentally amends – arrows in rapid succession came from Fran. All the projectiles were aimed at him. Jecht flinches and raises the arm adorned with his metal gauntlet to block them, although he doesn't have to.

The arrows whizz past him and into the wild saurian's tail, which it had raised without his noticing to strike at him. It gives a weary whine as three arrows embed the appendage to the ground, but the noise is cutoff when the fourth went into its neck and the last through its eye. This time, it does not try to retaliate.

"Oh, thanks," he says. "I mean, that was kind of amazing, what you did."

"Foolish, impulsive hume," Fran admonishes in reply. She never raises her voice, but her message is clear.

"Yeah, but I was kind of amazing too, right? _Right?_ " Jecht needles. "Come on, admit it!"

Instead of being goaded, she reaches him in two quick strides and effortlessly pulls his sword out of the sand. Fran twirls it so that she offers the weapon back to him by the hilt. "Since you insisted on this path, you will assist me by extracting its tanned hide and bones to sell in Rabanastre. Do you understand? Can you do this?"

"Yeah, but…"

She forgoes his protests and starts on the task as soon as Jecht accepts the sword out of her hand. Fran pulls forth a dagger from her hip and slices the dead beast with a precision and skill that bespeaks of expert experience. Jecht's own efforts aren't as clean or refined, but he is practiced enough in the job to know what to do.  
  
  
  
  
The Royal City of Rabanastre is spotted by Jecht long before he and Fran breech the outer walls. It begins as a blip in the distance, hardly a speck worthy of his attention, that grows into a sight too much to behold at once. When the exterior walls of the city tower into the sky, Jecht stops in his tracks to gape.

In Spira, society did _not_ get to be this size.   
  
Two cities may have come close: Luca, known for being Blitzball central, is heavily protected and fortified, as is Bevelle, since it's the closest to a capital the known world holds. The latter also houses the most regarded members of Yevon. Aside from those, the danger of an attack from Sin, combined with the high death rates, stunted urban growth. Jecht is confounded that this strange place has managed to thrive and expand long enough to reach its current state.

Maybe, with _him_ as he is, that meant…

"What keeps you?" Fran inquires, interrupting his thoughts. She stops a couple paces ahead of him when she notices that he no longer trails her.

"How…?" Jecht trails off. He rubs the back of his head in wonder, needing to crane his neck back to take in the sight. "This is awesome! And look at all the _people._ "

Fran inclines her head, regarding him strangely again. Jecht is starting to become accustomed to that sort of look directed at him.

"Rabanastre is but a hub city; there are far greater than this in existence," she says, as if it should be obvious.

"No way! Only place like this would be _my_ Zanarkand," he declares, blurting out the name before he can stop himself. The Zanarkand of his youth was destroyed one-thousand years ago, though long story short, he's from the past. Nobody would know that, so hearing tell of him originating from there would worry anyone. As if this woman hasn't suspected him insane _before…_

"Zan-ar-kand?" she experiments aloud, pronouncing the name impeccably, albeit drawing it out to taste the word. "Pray tell, where is this Zanarkand? You have spoken of it before."

"Uh…dunno where it's located from here," Jecht ventures, hesitant to reveal too much information. "It'd be up North somewhere, if ya wanna go by the temperature of the place. It's rather mild, and there's no beaches. It's too industrialized."

"Hn. Perhaps you can tell me more about this Zanarkand while I find a place to sell our newly acquired wares?" Fran suggests, in a roundabout way saying she wants to get a move on.

Jecht neither agrees nor disagrees, but shifts the heavy burlap sack he's carrying and starts trailing after her. He had been designated ( _ordered_ , more like) to carry the items they'd procured from their earlier kill as punishment for his impulsiveness.

As they enter the city proper and pass vendors, chocobo stalls, and civilians Jecht feels an overwhelming mix of renewed kinship and isolation. It's been awhile since he could freely walk the streets and cause no one distress. His senses find some familiar sights, sounds, and even smells that would have caused him to wallow in his memories if it weren't for the matter of him discovering so many new experiences.

Species he's never seen before openly wander the dirt roads. Some sport fluffy ears, same as his female guide. The clothes people wear are odd, too, either earth toned or showing blinding shades of turquoise and reds. The attire also appears thinner and lighter to accommodate the heat, as opposed to the humid environment he's accustomed to.

Rare metals, gems, and protective gear are adorned on top. The style was unlike his own form of dress, the tattered remains of his Blitzball uniform, or that of anyone he's come across. It's a struggle to keep up with Fran because he'll linger whenever he comes across a shopkeeper that resembles a reptile.

Has he ventured further West or South than he'd anticipated? Not all of Spira was well-documented. Boating was limited to small charters or fishing vessels designed for practical applications, like fast travel or work. Even in the ten year peace, none risked exploration given how busy they were with recovery efforts. Here, it appears far removed from that sort of life. These people weren't tanned from the oceans or beaches, but unrelenting heat.

Jecht had heard tell of deserts, where water is valued as good as gold, but only as told in stories by his long-ago friend Braska. Jecht hadn't called such accounts fantastical, not after the man put such sincere faith in his own backstory, but Jecht can't imagine such places as existing. Not until _now_ , where he's obviously so far from home.

_Again._

"Come along, Sir Jecht. The noonday sun fast approaches," Fran ushers him along. She isn't looking anywhere at him as she addresses Jecht, yet she seems to know when his mind wanders.

He snaps to attention, having zoned out on a group of children surrounding a fat creature possessing a flat nose, having not been privy to such a spectacle yet. Jecht hurries to catch up, ambling along when a creeping darkness crowds the streets. Curious, he looks up to the source and loses his grip on the satchel. The bag kicks up dust over his already dirtied, bare feet, but he doesn't notice.

For the longest of frightful seconds Jecht is transported back to when he'd first witnessed Sin with his own two eyes. Up until that moment he'd been functioning under simple beliefs: that he was still in the time of his Zanarkand, that he could return to his wife and son and stardom, that Sin was some scary story that people told each other to explain terrible storms that whisked unsuspecting bystanders away from home… 

But no, this isn’t a summons of evil. This was a _contraption_ of some kind, and now that Jecht is looking there are many more like it dotting the sky that are nothing like Sin Spawn. The movements are all off and the noise wrong; from on the ground it was like a soft hum as generated by metal ringing, unlike the songs he would sing.

Fran notices his absence and backtracks to join him, for which Jecht would later be grateful. If he'd lost track of her, he would’ve been in trouble.

"What are those _things?_ " he asks, pointing a finger at the device immediately above them.

"Airships," she answers matter-of-factly, meaning they must be commonplace. "Trade has opened in many countries now that the time of great unrest has ended, so their importing is ever the more required."

"Airships?" A flash of memory – of a pastel-colored ship that coasted on air and not on water. It was big, bigger than any of that day and age, and though Jecht couldn't comprehend everything back then, he remembered crossing paths with it in the ruins of Zanarkand, then later… His head hurt as he recalls so much, so suddenly. He grimaces, rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead.

Fran watches him when she says, "Come, you must be exerted from the journey. I will drop you off at the local tavern. Do you have enough to make your way?"

"Oh, I don't know," Jecht admits honestly, and searches his pockets. Miraculously, he has change on him, though where the gil had originated from he couldn't fathom.

She frowns at the proffered coinage, taking his hand in hers to examine it more closely. "Strange, these are unlike any currency I have seen. We will first sell our goods and then stop at the lodge to collect my bounty. After splitting the share, we shall eat. Agreed?"

"Aw, yeah! Good idea. I'm sick of lugging this dead stuff around," he says, hefting the bag back over the shoulder opposite of his sword. Enthusiasm enters his step at the prospect of food and drink.

"And whose fault would that be?"

"Oi! I warned you that I suck at rock, paper, blades," he argues in turn, purposefully missing her point.


	3. Chapter 3

The tavern is filled to capacity. A crowd is gathered; at first small, but growing in volume as Jecht's storytelling enthralls patron after arriving patron. He's no longer a drinking man, though it's hard to tell by how red-faced he is from his long-winded tales.

He's been at this since his initial arrival, pockets then full from haggling in nearby shops and stomach on empty. Now it is the opposite. Jecht is broke again, but no longer hungry, leaving him with the energy needed to talk to whoever would listen.

It is like center stage at the bar counter. People seated at tables and on either side of him cheer and pay rapt attention as he recounts the adventures of three of the least likely compatriots.

"And then, get this, and then this _massive_ blue monster rose up out of the water! The swordsman thought himself under attack, right? He'd never seen a beast that size that wasn't a threat, so he aimed for the legs. It's what he could reach, ya know?" Jecht says, making a quick, single slicing motion to accompany the verbal description. "But all that did was upset the creature's _driver._ "

"What do you mean, driver? Was it someone's pet or something?" the woman serving drinks behind the counter asks him. He even has the staff enthralled by his stories.

"Turns out the blue monster wasn't a monster at all, but it was no pet, either. It was a shoopuf! They're these big animals that can be tamed and used to cross the river for a small fee: they have trunks on their faces that let them breathe above water while the rest of 'em aren't. The swordsman had just attacked his ticket out of there!"

The room erupts into guffaws and pounding on wooden tables, Jecht joining in.

"Yeah! He wasn't gone much farther than _this_ guy," Jecht says, flicking his thumb in the direction of a short-haired patron who is so plastered that he's practically falling off of his chair. "Even if he was sober, the swordsman was new to the place and probably would have done the same. You could say he didn't always think with his head.

"His two friends, the monk and their charge, had to bail the swordsman out _again_. Shoopufs don't come cheap, not that it was hurt or nothing. The creatures are made of sturdier stuff, but the magician and monk were all about keeping the peace. The three of them still had to make it to the end of the world, so to get there they needed to be amiable to anyone that could help them there."

The story progresses. Jecht skips over some needless parts, such as Far Planes with wives in them, and went into more depth with others.

"The group arrived in this desolate, blackened land of lightning—"

"Are you sure you're not drunk? What kind of place is _that?_ " a man sitting across from Jecht asks.

"Yo! The Thunder Planes are no laughing matter, kid. For every five steps taken a bolt of lightning is summoned, and the place is haunted. Why, our world-traveling swordsman even got struck _twice._ "

"Did he make it?" the same man asks.

"Sure did, although…he'd later wish he hadn't." The laughter gives way as Jecht's voice becomes softer, more somber, and everyone leans forward to catch what he has to say as his tale come to a close. "The thing is, there's no happy ending. Not for these guys."

"What about the evil god ravaging their home? Don't they defeat it? Every hero's story _has_ to end with them defeating the monster," another patron chimes in.

"Hero's story," Jecht mutters under his breath, accompanied by a scoff. None near him hear it, however. Louder, he replies, "Turns out what they were fighting for wasn't what they'd hoped it would be. They were lied to, led astray. The magician and the swordsman do what's right and manage to kill the monster, but the both of them sacrifice themselves to do it. So there you go, there's your defeated monster ending."

There's soft murmurs as patrons discuss everything they've heard, before eventually trailing off into different topics as the subject runs its course. Some, with the entertainment finished, finally got up to leave as they'd intended to do hours prior, before becoming enraptured by his narrative. A few nod at him as they go, not that Jecht notices.

"Thanks for the tale. Been awhile since anyone's had something that interesting to say," a lizard – Bangaa, he internally corrects himself as he's been told of their species' name – compliments him on their way out. "Though the times aren't so rough anymore, it's relaxing to get lost in some make-believe every once and awhile."

"Right. I hear ya," Jecht says, idly waving at their back as he turns in his stool to hunch his shoulders over the counter.

The bartender moves over to offer him a drink for the third time, but he waves her off, too. It was getting harder and harder each instance to refuse, especially in the mood Jecht finds himself in now. But he'd sworn off the stuff and refused to yield. Sometimes his stubborn headedness came in handy. 

With the bar emptying as it is, Jecht is surprised when an unoccupied seat beside him is taken. He remains in his stooped position, but glances over when something cool is pushed against his elbow. It's a glass of water, which is offered to him by Fran. She has her own glass, somehow gripped in both hands without her long nails scratching the surface, and its rim is pressed against her lips as she appears to stare off into nothing.

Jecht blinks once, slowly. He's surprised to still see her here, as he'd assumed Fran had left as soon as she dropped him off here. The woman had seemed only too intent on getting rid of him as fast as possible without being selfish about it.

"Uh…?"

"You must be parched after such a story," is her way of explanation.

It was the truth, now that the notion was brought to his attention. Jecht chugs the water down in a few deep gulps, but doesn't let go of the glass. Instead, he holds onto it, running a calloused thumb along the smooth exterior.

"That swordsman you spoke of…" Fran starts.

"What of him?" he asks.

"You said he passed on?"

"Yeah, in a manner of speaking."

"I see. That is most unfortunate."

Jecht's fingers go rigid. "Why's that?"

"The world needs fools like him, I should think," is her reasoning.

"You're wrong," Jecht snaps, voice becoming gruffer as something constricts inside of him. "The last thing this place needs is someone like _him._ You want to know what really happened, how the legend really goes?"

Fran is silent, not that Jecht is expecting a response.

"He survived all that, gave up everything, just to become the very monster he was fighting against. That's irony for you. I won't say he and his friend died for nothing. That's not the point; the point _is_ he's not…he _wouldn't_ be good anymore. But whatever, it's just a nonsense story. Who cares?"

Delicately, Fran removes the glass he is near crushing in his fists. He doesn't put up a fight about it. After that, she rises from her seat. She says, "We start out tomorrow. Meet me here if you do not wish to be left behind."

A pause as Jecht considers her statement. "We?"

"There is still much to teach you, is there not?"

"Sure, I guess, but…" Flustered, Jecht settles for the first thought that comes to mind. "Lady, I don't get you. I don't need your pity to get around."

Finally, a change in expression crosses Fran's features. She raises a single eyebrow in his direction, the simple gesture making him feel cowed.

"Do _not_ be mistaken, Sir Jecht. What I offer you is a business proposition, and I expect you to pull your weight just as you did today. There are Marks, elite ones, posted on the board – over there," she says, indicating a large area of wall dedicated to what looked like wanted ads. "Some I cannot pursue alone. You need pay, and I need to uphold my reputation."

"You mentioned something about Marks earlier," he says. Jecht rubs his chin as he remembers back to their desert meeting, and then when they entered a hall where an array of skilled-looking hunters were gathered. "Are they bounties?"

"Precisely. Some are threats that must be dealt with, or done for sport and title. It has been some time since I have been able to go after larger game, but in a team we could cover so much more. That is, unless you are not up to the challenge?"

In a heartbeat Jecht is straightening in place, his jaw setting in a determined line. "There's no beast I can't fight! If you want my help so bad, then fine. Pick the biggest, baddest looking Mark posted and I'll be there."

"So we have a deal?" Fran asks.

"You bet your sweet ass we do," Jecht says, and even goes so far as to offer his palm in a handshake to seal the whole affair. A smirk appears on his face when Fran is able to meet his firm grip. "See you bright and early, partner."

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [writing blog on Tumblr](http://snaurus.tumblr.com/) for more content or [come say hi to me on Twitter](https://twitter.com/snaurus)!


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